


Sake

by hakuzo_k



Series: Den of Iniquity [1]
Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Underage Drinking, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakuzo_k/pseuds/hakuzo_k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I expect a subtle insinuation during the outing. There is none. There isn't even a mention of yōkai. Natori → Natsume</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invitation

Natori takes me out to dinner. It is a usual, kind gesture from him. Upon first meetings, I would be wary of ulterior motives. Because yes, Natori was prone to do that; it always was related to yōkai though.

I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and take to the invitation.

When I tell Nyanko-sensei this, he announces that he's going to drink with other yōkai for company, claiming he'd reek too much of the lousy exorcist. He studies Natori diligently, eyeing the man up and down with squinted eyes. "I expect you to take care of Natsume," he clips; a sharp warning. He turns his plump body to face me, his cat-grin more reassuring than unsettling. "I won't be far off if I'm needed." With a final 'idiot humans' to both Natori and me, Sensei waddles off to the forest behind my home.

I expect a subtle insinuation during the outing.

There is none.

There isn't even a mention of yōkai.

Bewildered, I furrow my brows. He understands this as my meal being not to my liking. When I dismiss that prediction, he flows back to a casual update of his acting career, trouble sleeping, and asking about my own well-being. That is it.

I didn't realize a confused frown formed once more until Natori points it out. I apologize quietly and reach for another piece of sushi with my chopsticks. A ceramic ochoko is pushed near my hand. I look to Natori, holding a similar cup. He smiles gently at me, almost like he is asking to be forgiven.

"Have some. Just don't tell your aunt, okay?"

I peer into the small cup, watching faint wafts of steam rise from the hot sake inside. Nyanko-sensei really loves this drink (and often stinks of it).

I raise the cup and acknowledge Natori, trying a small grateful smile. "Alright."

The cup tilts to my mouth and I taste the hot beverage. It's sweet, spicy, and just a bit strong. I'm not sure if I like it yet. I look to Natori for guidance. His lips quirk up, looking amused and almost rueful, and tips the ochoko to his lips. I follow suit, taking a larger sip than the last, feeling the tingle of alcohol on my tongue.

Natori shares with me some entertaining stories and even brought around teasing Sensei a little. I mention times when he was often mistaken as a pig. We both laugh and I feel the sake warmly tinge my cheeks.

We continue our meal with sparse yet enjoyable conversation. More than once, I catch his eyes on me.

* * *

Natori notes that I have a flush, most likely from the sake I just had. I laugh; I'm not sure why. Was his commentary funny?

My head and body feel resilient. I'm light, airy, calm. There's a mouthful of sake left in my ochoko. I decide to finish it to not be wasteful and maintain this bliss.

I think Natori kindly chides me. I really shouldn't have had that much to drink. He looks concerned, earnestly mindful. He takes back my ochoko and inspects its empty contents. His brows are furrowed and he wears a shallow frown.

The lizard yōkai that trails Natori's body captures my attention when it sweeps by his neck. It looks one way before settling on the other direction. A voice calls to me. Subsequently, I respond, dragging my eyes up to meet carnelian irises.

After a long pause he says, "Let me escort you home."

I become anxious and a bit sickly from Natori's request. My fingers trace the outline of the Book of Friends in my bag as my other hand reaches for the tokkuri, but Natori places it out of reach on his side of the table. He signals a waitress for the check.

I look down to the edge of the table. There are hardly any scratches or dents. As for my hand gripping the edge, I regard a faint paper-cut scar on my wrist.

I let the alcohol lead me.

* * *

When we make it outside, I adjust my messenger bag across my chest and cold air breezes past. Promptly, my hands wrap around my arms for warmth. My face feels hotter than before. ...Now my arms do too.

It takes me a moment to realize Natori sacrificed his brown jacket for me. I must have looked at him strangely (or my face must have been weird itself) because he doesn't look at me. I'm about to ask if it's okay to wear it, but he beats me to it. He reassures the issue that he's a bit warm himself. ("I even have long-sleeves; it's fine, Natsume.")

I tell him I'm thankful for the jacket and give a conscious smile. The jacket is a bit too big for me, but warm.

...It even smells nice.

I didn't realize I said that aloud. I quickly apologize and try to hide my furiously red face by the jacket's collar. Natori responds with a gentle laugh. There is a faint flush there too.

After the exchange, he seems hesitant to move on. I'm ahead of him by a few feet and turn around to see him scrutinizing me. I become self-conscious and curious. Is my face ridiculously red? Did I not thank him properly? Is there a yōkai behind me? (I quickly glimpse behind me; none.)

Perplexed, I approach Natori (I feel so _light_ ) and ask if something is amiss.

He looks taken back, then validated, albeit sounding remorseful. "I think you should sober up a bit before I bring you back. I don't think your aunt would praise me for offering you alcohol."

Words spill out of my mouth too easily. "I'm fine, Natori. She'll be fine too." Would she? Why would I say that? Of course she'd worry; I'm too reserved and careless than normal, even my face is too red to be blamed on a weak breeze.

Surely Natori points these out also, furthermore remarking a sway in my movement that I haven't noticed (or outrightly ignored). "As well as your breath; it smells of alcohol—" When did he get the chance to smell my breath…? "I should have minded you more… no. I really shouldn't have offered in the first place."

I could go back home like this or wait to sober up; either way Touko-san will be upset. I raise my eyes to Natori's. It doesn't matter either way, does it? Touko knows that I make unexpected outings before. I'm just staying with a friend. She always accepts that.

"Alright," my voice cracks. "I'll call Touko-san." —once we get to your place, I almost add. But that sounds unnatural.

I've never been to Natori's residence with just Natori.

* * *

It's a simple apartment rented out by his studio, he tells me. Basic furnishings and function; I get the feeling he doesn't stay often, if only for sleep.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll fetch you the phone and water." Natori disappears after leading me to the couch. I place my bag on the floor at the edge of the couch. As I'm sitting I inquire the surroundings, expecting Natori's shiki to float about. There's no sound or sight of them.

Natori returns shortly. I take the phone from him, dropping it in my lap because I didn't use a strong enough grasp. I call home and inform Touko that I'm staying with a friend from school for the night. She finds no dilemma with this and wishes me a good night.

In the meantime, Natori has sat down and turned on the television. The water he collected for me waits on the coffee table in front of us. I drink from the glass, delighted by its coolness washing down my throat. I gasp softly after a long draw. I turn to thank Natori, but I catch his head rotating to the television from my direction. I don't tell him I noticed this and thank him.

He turns to look at me and smiles. "It's not a problem."

My head still floats, but it's not unpleasant. And yet I harness that enjoyable feeling; it's something I don't wish to dismiss. My body feels malleable and my eyesight reads every movement as fluid. I taste the alcohol escaping through my breaths.

I nurse the glass of water in my hands, noticing the cool condensation against my palms. My parched mouth takes another sip.

The cushions beneath me shift. I look to Natori in question; his arm is tossed along the back of the couch, body leisurely sunken into the furniture. His head is faced toward me, glasses glared by the luminosity of the television.

"Oh." He blinks, then removes his glasses to place on the table. "I don't need to be wearing these at this time, huh?" I honestly forgot about that; Natori uses glasses to see yōkai clearer. He even jests that it's also a disguise when he doesn't want to be recognized as an actor. I guess it works… just as long as he tones down his 'charm.'

But… since he was wearing them, does that mean he was prepared in case of a yōkai? …Well, Sensei did warn him. I glance to the bag near my feet.

One of the prominent reasons why I'm constantly targeted is because of the book. Natori still doesn't know about the Book of Friends. His protection would be feigned if that was known, wouldn't it? My face drops into dejection; I don't want that to be the case, but it might be… Regardless, he's in danger knowing or not knowing its existence — because he's around me.

I face Natori with a grimace. "You really considered Nyanko-sensei's warning, huh?"

Natori blinks wide-eyed at me before retorting with an amused tone. "I'd be a fool not to. He might eat me if you had gotten hurt." We both chuckle, but Natori continues. "If he didn't request it, I would regardless. You're my friend." A soft smile that he flashes makes me flounder. I purse my lips flat and pick at the cuffs of the jacket I'm wearing. "Besides," Natori adds, framing his chin with his thumb and index finger, "you're my apprentice with a strong spiritual energy. It'd be a calamity for you to be injured or dead!"

I narrow my eyes at him, countering jokingly, "Mm, right. What are the chances of the useless exorcist finding another able-bodied apprentice?"

Natori lowers his hand and grins at me. "Very slim, Natsume. I'd be in despair if I lost you."

That sounds more sincere than I anticipated. Speechless, I nod with a quiet 'mm' before taking another sip from the glass in my hands. Disconcerted from the way Natori's words sounded, I keep my head bowed toward the television. Some late-night talk show is screening; the host sits in a chair adjacent to his guest. The guest has his legs crossed, lounging deep into the cushiony chair. The volume is set low.

I feel myself sweat a bit under the borrowed jacket. I set the glass on the table to remove the jacket and place it on the couch's arm. My blood continues to flow with intoxication, as with my breath, heavy and labored.

...I don't want to involve others, I think abruptly when recalling the inherited book. Natori said he'd protect me without Sensei's request, but he may get hurt. What does he gain from that?

"Natori, if you ever feel like hanging around me is too burdensome, you should leave. I can't stand the thought of someone getting hurt because of their involvement with me." When I'm around and people become hurt, it's because of me, because I see yōkai, because the yōkai terrorize me. "I'm used to it. It's understandable." I feel a bit chilly now; I move to pull the jacket around my shoulders.

"If that was the case with everyone, you'd be truly alone." Natori shifts next to me; I keep my head low towards the television. "You forget I can see them too. You don't think I've thought and said the same thing when I was younger?" You don't know about the Book of Friends, I reason. "You have to believe in others, Natsume." Something warm is placed on my hand; with a glance, I discover it's Natori's hand. I gaze at it as he continues. "Your close ones understand that you don't wish to hurt them. It's difficult to be comfortably alone, Natsume. Some can see your desire to be with people." Natori squeezes my hand. I think about returning the gesture, so I push my hand up into his. I don't dare look at him; I'm really embarrassed. Touko-san is the only person who has held my hand.

Natori leans in toward me. His breath faintly touches my hair. "A relationship with another is a combined effort. If one puts trust in you, isn't it polite to reciprocate?"

"Y-Yeah…" I lean away from the closing distance, but I find myself immobilized when he tousles my hair. I contemplate asking him about what happened when he was younger. Were you alone? Did you have any friends? Did your family know? Did you know anyone who could _see_? I wanted to ask these before, but they sound too intrusive after just being acquainted. A warm finger touches my cheek and I carefully look up. Natori's hand lowers to my forehead where his thumb brushes against the side of my brow.

I want to hide when Natori fixes his sight on me — now that his glasses are removed, I feel exposed. Was it because he removed an object that aided in my safety, or that his eyes appear imposing?

His hand slips away from mine and reaches to hold my jaw. I shiver when the other hand falls so that he now frames my face with both palms. A finger extends to slide behind my ear; it gently, slowly, strokes there.

Despite the care, collectedness, and leisure, — which I'm sure Natori intends to be tender and thoughtful — I'm unnerved and begin to panic. My lungs pick up a frantic breath. I avert my eyes from him — embarrassing to admit, but they had ensnared me for a moment with its color and emotional intensity. The glass cup on the table seizes my attention (if only it being a fleeting distraction). Its condensation has pooled and left a ring of moisture around its base.

'Maybe I should clean that up,' I want to say, but I'm cut off. The palms on my face pull up and forward. Instinctually, I look to whatever is tugging at me. Natori's head bows in my direction, his carnelian eyes search mine. Thoughts are stagnant in my head, including the pleas to respond. Words to voice them are choked in my throat. Dread has paralyzed me. I stare agape at Natori.

I don't object, I don't plea, I don't make a single noise.

Natori tilts his head and when he leans closer, his eyes shut. My breathing is near erratic — my heart throbs mercilessly against my chest. _What is he doing?_ I shudder — the moment is fast, and slow. His hands coddle my head gingerly, but I am not swayed. _Why is he doing this?_ Hastily **,** I clutch the sleeves of his shirt in an attempt to pull his arms down. But I'm still shaking; my grip is weak alongside my mind. _Please don't_.

He presses a long kiss to my lips. Finally, the throbbing ceases — but in return I feel nothing, like I'm floating in zero gravity. My eyes are shut soundly. I taste heat and sake and virility and my own fear. My fingernails dig into his arms, but he strains his lips harder against mine. I only want to breathe. I drop my hands from his arms and scrabble to his hands. I try to pry them off. He merely bends forward, flattening himself unto me so that my back is to the couch.

His mouth pulls off to breathe ( _heavy, desperate_ ) and tells me that I should kiss back. I purse my lips. This time I can feel my frown — ( _sheepishly deep_ ) — and shake my head furiously. _No_.

I'm scared. I'm genuinely scared. I keep my eyes shut — horrified and disbelieving. Humans aren't supposed to be frightening. Friends aren't supposed to be frightening. He said he is a friend so he shouldn't be scaring me. I know my face is shamefully red and fearfully twisted; I feel it burn and tingle and note how Natori's hands are cool atop it.

When I don't offer a verbal reply, he mentions that my face is cute — "It's cute that you got embarrassed from a single kiss."

No it's not, no it's not. I didn't even want you to — but I didn't say anything, and I still don't. I wonder how flushed my face can get and I become utterly ashamed by that thought.

One of his hands drop to my shoulder, along with my hand frantically gripping it. Does he feel my trembling hand? I want him to — maybe he'll stop. He kisses the corner of my lips and I exhale a great, shaky breath. The corners of my eyes become moist —

I don't want to see. And I don't want to feel or smell or hear or taste — but those are out of my control.

He tells me again to kiss him ("just a little bit"). I'm hesitant, slow, but I do so very lightly. Initiating something like this is foreign to me. I feel betrayed by myself when I enjoy the tingling, meeting of skin. I remain motionless after that. Natori nuzzles my neck and mumbles a quiet thank you and pauses, as if he was anticipating a reply. Truthfully, I'm too distracted by his hands softly sweeping down my face, my chest, my torso.

When he kisses my neck, I'm caught off-guard. I gasp out a held breath and when I inhale, his distinct scent invades my nose. It's of musk cologne, sake, ink, and dry paper — it's definitive and sharp. I don't want to know it, recognize it, recall it. But it imprints itself in convenience.

His lips are placid but swift upon my neck, resounding with faint, brisk smacking noises. The couch groans through his shifting. An arm is now placed on my back; another thoughtfully pushes down on my chest. I am assisted to lie down on the couch that reeks of clean dust. My head spins as I lay on my back — despite my closed eyes.

Natori removes his mouth from my neck to speak above me in a whisper: "I don't want you straining your neck. This should be easier."

My mouth gapes in a silent sob. _I don't want it to be easier_. I bring my arms to cover my face. _I don't._ I'm ashamed, I'm confused, I'm disoriented. I let out an embarrassing whimper, although it's muffled when he covers my lips together with his. Another kiss, but wetter. What unsettles me is when something dampish, hotter, heavier taps against my lips. I know I'm frightened, I know I should have sealed my lips, but I'm dumbfounded and I become limp. It presses again. Oh, _oh_ , it must be a tongue; a _tongue_. I hasten to the nearest object (an arm, Natori's arm — I don't want it, but my hand stays). It tries again — much easier this time — and touches mine. I groan, tighten my grip on his arm. He pushes deeper —

Oh god, oh god. It's hot, slimy, strange strange _strange_. I taste repulsive, sickly-sweet sake, a heavy force, desire— he flips my tongue up, slides against it. I squirm, emitting a small, drowned-out noise. Natori stops for a brief moment before repeating that motion. I try to make myself sound notably distressed and fidget sternly. He continues.

My fingernails dig into his forearm. _Stop_. I don't want to feel you or taste you or smell you or hear you.

There is no longer a mouth on mine.

"Natsume."

And please don't make me see you.

"Let me see your eyes."

I don't want his voice to sound like that — soft, careful, worried —

"Did I hurt you…?" His hand holds my face.

— nor his touch.

He tries to move the arm I'm clinging to. It doesn't budge and he doesn't force it. "Natsume…"

There's a foul silence after that. Am I still breathing? My lungs burn. Natori doesn't stir above me. Quiet. He won't move. Once I struggle to gasp for some air, he aggressively pursues again.

"Open your eyes."

When I do, my sight is a blur, but I recognize Natori's face above me. He stares at me, wearing a frown with downturned brows. I remove my hand from his arm and his hand falls from my face.

I know my eyes are watering by this point. He doesn't need to state this, but he does, and I feel worse. I don't want to cry. I don't. Not in front of him.

"I want to sleep," I croak out, my mouth heavy with a frown.

I'm reluctant to move, but Natori raises me up. My head spins at an alarming speed. Natori's hands are on me (I'm so dizzy), I'm led somewhere (the floor transforms into a wall), a lush surface is underneath me (Natori's face is in front of mine).

In that moment, I realize that I wasn't placed here to sleep. Again, I try to object, but I'm kissed, spread upon the mattress, and stripped. My consciousness fades in and out. His hands bend to me — move up, twist, sink. I recall hoarse breathing, murmurs, gasps, and pants. There are hands and lips and skin and heat. There is pain and pleasure. I still smell sake on him, but now it's lost within the sweat and his embodiment. I think I get used to the kissing, more so than the ache and anxiety convulsing through me.

Scoop up, pull down, hold still. I listen and obey. I'm rewarded with the taste of sake and tainted kindness. I don't test his patience to speak. I remain as silent as I can, despite being swollen with confusion, hurt, deception.

When it ends, my body finally eases — no more bending, turning, whispering, coaxing, lying — but I still struggle to breathe the thick atmosphere. I gag, causing my eyes to water. Natori asks if I'm okay. I don't look at him.

I'm escorted to the bathroom in front of the toilet. A hand smoothes up and down my back. I'm not sick; I only spit up. Though this place's smell doesn't help; it merely escalates my nausea.

He rinses my face, dabs a towel to dry. I hang onto his arms for support, knowing without a doubt that I would fall without some sort of purchase.

Back to the room, the mattress, the sheets, the tainted smell; I'm kissed 'goodnight.'

There's a warmth beside me that I don't wish for. The taste lingers, the smell stains, and unwelcome soft breaths slip by. At least I don't see him.

Restless dormancy finds me too easily.


	2. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I purse my lips when my stomach churns and tightens from the heavy, bold aroma wafting off of him. The taste of sake floods my mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this fic was set in “parts,” each standing as its own story. The more I develop the plot, the more I realize I’m going to have to include the parts in one collected story since some chapters will piggy-back along certain parts. But essentially, each chapter can be read as a one-shot.
> 
> Thank you all for the encouragements, positive reviews, and hits for this. I’m so glad that there are people still reading Natsume fanfiction. It really helps when I have people comment just to say they liked it or to correct something. Your feedback really helps, so thank you all so much!
> 
> Warning: Vomiting in this chapter.

There is laughter and off-tune singing that rouses me from my infrequent dozing. I haven’t had a restful sleep in a week. Now I don’t expect to even return to that poor rest when I hear those pattering paws near my room. At least the shoji is discreetly shut before unsteady paws shuffle their way to my futon.

“Ha-ha-ha. Oi, Natsume!” Never a mindful drinker, Nyanko-sensei steps on my foot. Startled, I jerk to pull my foot away which causes Sensei to stumble. “How rude! Treat be gentler, fool!” Nyanko-sensei crawls closer to me, his stubby paws sinking into the plush comforter tucked around my body. I pull the sheet closer to my face, now noticing the clamminess of my skin. My lips quirk then tremble when I catch that distinguished, sickly scent.

“Sensei, you smell disgusting.” Peeking my weary eyes open, I am met with the view of the cat’s flushed face in front of mine. I purse my lips when my stomach churns and tightens from the heavy, bold aroma wafting off of him. The taste of sake floods my mouth.

“Idiot. This is the sweet, heavenly smell of sake — ow!”

I shove Sensei’s face away before ripping the futon cover off of me to scramble out of the bed. I dash out of the room with a hand over my mouth, mind set on making it to the washroom.

Upon entering it, I collapse in front of the toilet. I let my watering mouth drip into the bowl, anticipating the nausea that follows. Paws thump their way down the hall nearing the open door. Despite the distraction, I’m brought back to my predicament when a physical dread clenches my stomach. I try to focus on my staggered breathing, but that soon comes to fail when I retch into the toilet. Once, twice more, my body convulses and it leaves a lasting, violent tremor.

Focusing on my breaths, I hear the sound of the washroom’s door closing and Sensei’s padding feet. I bow my head and feel my face flush in shame. I’ve never had a reaction like this to Sensei’s drinking. “I’m sorry, Sensei.” He doesn’t respond, so I wait a few moments to steady my breathing and trembling.

Although difficult, I reach the sink with my weak knees. I hastily turn on the faucets so I can rinse my face and mouth of the spell. Subsequently, I grip the countertop with my head bowed, letting my wet face drip into the sink.

Something dense drops and rots in my stomach. It won’t let up. My heart thrums and my lungs become heavy like lead once more. I didn’t want to come to a realization, a recollection, but at this point it is unavoidable. It’s similar to before; having my mouth and face washed. But at least it’s me holding myself up.

A furry warmth brushes against my ankles. Thanks to the distance between us, I don’t smell the alcohol. I think Sensei caught on to that; he doesn’t move any closer.

“You’re sick,” he claims. I try my best to shrug my stiff shoulders. It’s there, but just hardly. “Mu,” he grumbles. I’m not sure if he was able to catch my gesture.

Suddenly, I’m filled with the need to explain myself. There is something amiss if I brush it off and return to my past stagnant doze. This is not something customary or recurring, but discordant. I have never reacted like this to Sensei’s drinking before. There is no filter to my words; they leave my mouth without a second thought. “I just… really don’t like the smell of alcohol, Sensei.” My body heats up. Not only am I humiliated, but I admitted something like that.

It was my fault anyway. I had too much. He said I had too much. My eyes feel muggy.

As I take in another breath, I realize it is sharp and empty. It’s like my lungs are littered with holes. I bite down on my lip and try to inhale through my nose — it still burns. Dry and void. I’m tired of this. Sensei shouldn’t have to deal with this either.

With whatever air I have left, I release it in a shaky sigh. I’m the one at fault.

The ball of fur nudges my calf and I jerk in surprise. “Mu. It can’t be helped,” comes his voice, a tone of faux annoyance. “I’ll try to help you.”

It is just a fleeting sickness, then. It’ll pass.

“Th-Thank you, Sensei,” I wheeze, hands nearly slipping from the counter. I gaze at the water drops on my left hand.

“But you’re not allowed to vomit on me. Once you do, I’m gone.”

My response is a pained laugh, but I feel a bit relieved, the dense rot in my stomach deteriorating just a little. I turn my head to see him and offer a very faint smile. “Alright, Sensei.”

He blinks at me, quiet for some moments before departing. “Clean your face once more.”

I stare at the empty doorway confused. I raise a hand to touch my cheek, feeling a trail of cooling wetness already stuck on my cheek.


	3. Negligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was an argument.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter is from Natori’s point-of-view. I initially wrote it without his thoughts of what he did to Natsume, and even still it’s a bit difficult to proof-read because the last thing I want is for the idea of rape to be ‘okay,’ because it is _not_.
> 
> Natori knew Natsume was inebriated and chose to ignore that. He rationalized that because Natsume didn’t give him a verbal ‘no,’ that it was okay to do. Natori does have a romantic and sexual attraction to Natsume, but note this is _not_ him acting solely on ‘sexual urges;’ he could satisfy those by other means. What he did is a sense of control/power because he is getting what he wanted from Natsume. Please, please, please don’t misunderstand this.

When I met Natsume, he was a probable assistant. Then an acquaintance. Then a friend. Then lastly, someone I pursued. When I invited Natsume to dinner, what occurred after wasn’t premeditated. I wanted our relationship to develop, deepen, and lessen its strain. But that meeting quickly became a mistake.

I thought that the unsaid date would be casual, uncomplicated, and end with a warmhearted goodnight. My nerves were wrecked; I comforted them (along with Natsume’s) with poison. I was exuberant and negligent, dismissing his questionable gestures and silence.

Because he didn’t object, it must be okay, I reasoned. Intoxicated and overwhelmed by him, I pushed on, wrapping myself with him. My feverish hands pressed into his clammy flesh. I tasted and breathed the sake from his mouth.

Finally I was able to experience this. How long I had waited, struggling to keep myself from this, to keep him safe from this. I was able to have him close, push deep, pass my hands over his flesh, forbidden words escaping my breath, revealing my once imprisoned desire:

_“I’ve wanted to do this for such a long time...”_

He remained limp, but whined, keened, and gasped. It was difficult to catch his look; he would toss it to the side, gasping (sobbing), breaths strained.

I was never able to catch his eyes.

 

“Ah, what is this?”

I jerk in surprise at the voice. A calloused hand clasps my bare right arm. The visitor rotates it, perhaps to scrutinize it diligently. There are scattered fingernail indentations and faint hand-bruises along the wrist and forearm. The indentations are already scabs, no more than a week old. As politely as I can, I pull my arm from the other’s grasp. Upon returning it to the table (where it once remained undisturbed), I slipped down the risen sleeve of the kimono. I turn a page in the manuscript I have that sits on the table and choose to not acknowledge the other’s presence — until the man made himself impossible to ignore.

“It must be from a lover,” he proposes, _teasing_ , before taking a seat next to me. I see the man lean forward and prop his elbows onto the low table, causing his black haori to loosen in the front and sleeves slide down his forearms. “It must have been good, if these marks can attest what happened.”

It’s silent after that. I feel his eye on me. My arm twitches. I turn another page.

“...was it not?”

I exhale heavily through my nostrils and rub two fingers together as an alleviating distraction. I just want a few moments tranquility before the Matoba’s exorcist gathering. “It was an argument.” I begin to gather my materials, intent on seeking either neutral or vacant company than the head of the Matoba clan.

I notice Matoba watching my hands. By chance, my left sleeve slips, exposing my wrist and other crescent-shaped scabs that litter it. At a glance, I catch his lips smooth into a grin.

“I’d like a story,” he requests entrancingly, shifting himself closer to me. He keeps his face smooth and placid awaiting my reaction.

“I haven’t any time to amuse you,” comes my punctuated retort, shying away from him. A booklet with loose papers and a pen are shoved into the satchel beside me. “There are other exorcists around with more entertaining tales who would be _glad_ to indulge you.”

Matoba’s ominous smile lingers as he taps quietly against the wooden table. “Not quite like your tales, Natori. Notably this one.” When raising his eye to mine, I glare back, ready to dismiss myself to a different location. Before I could budge, Matoba’s next words stop me. “I believe you — that you were in an argument.” He glances at my sleeve, veering my arms to stay a distance from the man. In that moment, I become timid, stifled, _caught_. My body tenses as I wait for him to resume. “Those marks are frenzied and intended. You’re not one to get into unnecessary disputes.”

There’s a twitch in Matoba’s lips, callous and realizing. I turn my head away to keep my composure, clenching my kimono and the satchel underneath the table.

“Who would make those?”

Grimacing, I adjust the strap of the bag over my shoulder before rising. “I’m flattered by your interest—” There’s an unsettling flicker in Matoba’s eye — mocking, as if knowing— “but I am preoccupied at the time.” Bitterly, I give him a shallow bow, “Excuse me,” before departing.

I’m mindful of my sleeves for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Shortly after leaving the exorcist manor, Hiiragi materializes beside me. Following my rigid stride, she inquires about the conference, and I shake my head in response. Typical, bland things. I readjust my hat and glasses when passing through a populated sidewalk. Hiiragi may have noticed my irritation; she remains silent to my inner fuming. My steps are longer, quicker than usual.

Matoba had taken me aside, trying to discuss ‘the peculiar boy.’ He knows my connection with him and always enjoys prying about his status, often criticizing that Natsume’s spiritual power shouldn’t waste away to helping ayakashi instead of humans. I informed him that Natsume isn’t interested in those type of schemes, especially with the association of the Matoba clan. But of course he had to include his own jab, as if his pestering wasn’t enough. _“He’s not a part of your clan, either. Even though you two are friends.”_

We walk on in silent solitude to my apartment. Upon the gate entrance, I stop in my tracks, aware of a recent presence. I squint my eyes and ready my hands. I hear Hiiragi step around me, a hand on her sword’s sheath. Approaching the entrance, a white blur flashes by the side of the building. It quickly scampers to a side road with its stubby legs.

That fat cat is too distinguished to mistaken.

Still wary, I ask Hiiragi if anything else is there, like the possibility of Natsume (who the cat yōkai commonly accompanies).

“Nothing, sir.” She has already resolved her defense, knowing that the yōkai that slipped away.

Strange, then.


	4. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He keeps his mouth shut and smiles fakely at me, thanking me for being concerned.

Natsume has been unusually distant since his human date with that sparkling exorcist. And now he gets sick from the smell of sake, claiming it’s my fault that he becomes sick. Natsume still hasn’t corrected himself, as if he has always had an aversion to it. (I’d like to say his troubling dozing also, but he always had those night terrors.) He keeps his mouth shut and smiles fakely at me, thanking me for being concerned.

Ha! Concerned. I must make sure that he himself hasn’t spoiled or forgotten his promise. Humans are easily susceptible to bodily and mental illnesses. Ah, then, perhaps that foolish exorcist afflicted him with whatever sickness he was carrying.

I give Natsume a silent discerning look. His eyes flit downward when we make eye-contact. Without a comeback, he returns to his schoolwork, barring himself off when he becomes upset.

Earlier I explored what I could regarding that exorcist’s residence. Lucky me that he wasn’t bright enough to lock windows. Walking into a room that held a sofa, I vaguely caught Natsume’s scent. Was he here that night he had dinner with the exorcist? It was recently faded, so it was likely.

The scent trailed away to a room with a closed door. After struggling at first with the door’s knob, I was blasted with a thick human scent upon it opening. Mostly it was of the exorcist, but it hinted of the boy. Although odd, it was distantly familiar, but still irretrievable.

Quickly taking in the room, I recognized it as the exorcist’s sleeping chambers. Did Natsume sleep here that night too? Honestly, he can be really troublesome.

Though most of all, that useless exorcist is.

“So you have no idea why sake makes you sick?” I inquire Natsume again, returning to his room with shrimp tempura I snuck from Touko. He turns around to address me, glaring when he notices the shrimp in my mouth.

“I told you, Sensei. Too much exposure from your constant drinking.” He sounds exasperated and turns back to his desk.

I find the cushion that Touko lays out for me, settling on it to watch Natsume for the time I munch on the tempura. Before speaking, I finish the rest of the meat. “Mm, Natsume. I haven’t seen that exorcist-brat around the past couple weeks. Is he finally leaving my prey be?”

My eyes lift from the snack to Natsume’s rigid frame. “...Yeah. Maybe,” is his reply, scratching a writing utensil on paper.

“Maybe you said something mean on your human date. He’s a sensitive pretty-boy.” Natsume stops his hand. I close my mouth, watching the hand quietly. He’s listening now. “...You smelled weird when I came back in the morning.” It was only a whiff, because Natsume hurried past to enter the washroom, but it was recognized as the same heavy smell at that exorcist’s place.

Natsume glances at me (annoyed and careful). “I bathed, Sensei. You probably don’t like the soap.”

“...Hm.” A gross human-soap; right. I nibble at the remains of the shrimp tail, sharing a glare with Natsume. Irritated as of late, I hardly last a few seconds. I spit out the shrimp tail to shout. “Ahh! You’re so stubborn!”

Natsume’s brows knot and lips scowl before snapping back. “Look who’s talking, Mr. Cat Detective! And clean up your mess!”

 

As much as I loathe it, maybe the flashy exorcist will provide some answers. Although I can’t trust there’ll be whole truths, it’s better than Natsume’s avoidance.

I haven’t had a decent drink since that night he got sick. It’s about time for the prohibition to dispel; I’ve been tolerating this kid for too long.

It wasn’t hard to find him with such a distinct scent (from the amount of unwelcome exposure I’ve had of it from Natsume). Adorned in his “disguise” (how is a bucket hat and glasses clever?), it looks like he has an assignment. Three of his shiki surround him, either looking at the sheet of paper in his hands or upon the path ahead. Although his face is turned down, I catch the despondent and irritated expression and how harshly the paper is clutched, crumpling where his fingers gripped.

One of them address the exorcist. “Do you want us to keep an eye on him?”

Making my way closer, I hear the man disagree. “...no. He’ll be fine. Let’s leave him be.” My ears perk in curiosity, wondering who the person of interest could be.

Before I have the chance to ponder that, the one with the horns and frizzy hair spots me. Her lips twitch into a grimace and she announces, “Ah, look. It’s the buta-neko.” I clench my teeth. Not now.

The exorcist flinches before turning in my direction — an illusory front, forced smile, and sharp eyes.

“Entering without an invitation is rude, even punishable, pig-cat. How naive that you wouldn’t think that Master had something arranged,” the princess with the long black hair comments.

The exorcist’s a bit tense, I note when stepping closer. “Good. Then I don’t need to hide the fact that I did.”

The two shiki move to be in front of the exorcist, but he dismisses them. “Now’s not the time,” I catch him mutter. They slink back, the horned-one and princess casting skeptical glances at me.

He looks down to me, aloof and arrogant. The paper in his hands is folded and tucked into his jacket’s pocket. “Ah, what’s the fat cat up to today?” His reddish eyes skim past and back to me. “You’re doing a poor job as a guardian right now. Where’s your master?”

My lips twitch in indignation. I see the bone-mask shiki take a step forward, focused on me. Quietly I bristle before narrowing my eyes at the exorcist. “Natsume got sick from the smell of sake when I came back one night. That’s never happened before. Would you know why?”

“Master,” Princess interrupts, floating by the exorcist’s side. “There’s another ayakashi nearby.”

He dismisses her under his breath. The shiki eyes me carefully before retreating to the others. Then he turns back to me, from business to apologetic. (An actor, after all.) “I’m sorry about that. I gave him a little when we last had dinner. He felt sick soon after. He probably associates the smell with when he became ill.”

I scrutinize his face. Fine, that sounded reasonable — and anticipated. “I caught Natsume’s scent in your settlement.” The three shiki all monitor me, but remain stagnant. None of their expressions change, not even the human’s whom I am addressing. “Did he spend the night?”

The amused grin lingers as he articulates his words with ease. “He was too inebriated and ill to return home. I’d hate for his aunt to scold him, or resent me. I’d like to have Natsume as a friend.”

“Natsume came back smelling very human.” I glower up at him, but he remains indifferent. The bone-mask shiki vigilantly observes me now. The sword sheath is slackened from her shoulder, poising to move with short notice — something I don’t blame her for. Progressively,  I’ve been becoming increasingly surly by this rude and cautious exorcist. And now, more than ever, I firmly resent him for having been acquainted with his smell.

His answer comes out polished and controlled. “He was with me. Humans can’t help their scent.”

“Master,” the masked shiki whispers at his side.

“Yes, I know,” he mutters back. My eyes are seized by his, and in turn I harden my gaze with a harsher determination. Neither Natsume nor I are fools to delude. He plays back with his own easy-going grimace. “Sorry, kitty. I have a job soon. Please excuse me.”

No, I won’t, but the exorcist leaves regardless, his shiki casting me wary looks before shadowing their master.

I hope there’s a way to purge this scent from my nose. I’m becoming nauseated.

 

I toss the shoji door to the side. “Oi, Natsume! You best be glad that I haven’t drank due to that pathetic exorcist!” Tired and petulant, I nestle myself on a small pillow. I bury my paws under my chest, taking deep breaths through my nose, hoping that this would help coax me. Humans are damnably aggravating.

Natsume has already turned to look at me (his face paling farther than it should). I keep my mouth shut and observe him, curling myself into a comfortable ball. It looks like he was shaken up earlier — maybe he got sick again.

“You saw Natori, Sensei?” His voice tinges with panic. Notably in his golden eyes the emotion is reflected. (Hell, I can smell it sweltering off the damn child.)

I consider Natsume for a few moments before answering. “...Yes. Were you expecting another lousy exorcist? I really can’t keep track of them all.” I sigh, sinking further into the cushion. If I could only have one drink... I grind my teeth. Yes, right. Natsume had also. “Thanks to that exorcist, I can’t even enjoy a sip of sake. You failed to mention you had some with him and even spent the night.”

Natsume flinches, faltering to reply. His head slightly bows to the floor (he still looks so sick); it can be easily detected that he feels responsible (even for a moment, I feel guilty). In a quiet voice, he admits, “...I didn’t want to mention it because I got sick... and had to stay over...” ...and pauses.

The muddling silence finds its opportunity and settles. Natsume clings to it, to steady his fingers, lick his lips, find his breath.

I recall a time I inquired Natsume, whom was far too distracted, about his mood. _“Nothing is wrong.”_ And he left off at that. So like that time, I mask myself in indifference, waiting, watching, silent urging Natsume with my disciplined patience.

“...It was embarrassing. I’m sorry, Sensei.” No longer is his head bowed. He meets my eyes with a firm facade (practiced, worn, dated — he hasn’t had the use for it in so long).

“...Idiot. Don’t apologize.” I puff out my chest, look him over (withdrawing, scared, wary) again. I can’t help but feel frustrated. Why are you like this Natsume? Whatever is happening, I hate it as much as you do. It’s not hard to tell that stupid exorcist did something that bothered you.

“That foolish exorcist ought to for making you sick. What an irresponsible adult,” I scoff. Natsume watches me carefully. “And to think I allowed a speck of trust for him to take you out for a simple meal. Even you! You can be too trusting, too accommodating. I was too lax this time—”

My rambling is interrupted when Natsume rises to his feet, his attention to the clock on the wall. “Come on, Sensei. Dinner’s ready.” His voice is urged monotonous.

Curious. I scrunch my face and spring to my feet when Natsume approaches the door to leave. I follow by his side, trying to peek at his face from below, but the angle is too limited to allow that.

As he begins to descend the stairs, I speak, causing his frame to rattle and hesitate. “Do humans always reek of another when they spend time together?”

I overhear Natsume’s quickened breaths over the short pause before he continues down the steps. I’m not able to determine his expression anymore, but I notice the stiffness in his legs.

“Sometimes.”


	5. Similar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What was your argument about?”

Nanase briefly spies on the letter I finished before it’s delicately folded lengthwise. She clicks her tongue, no doubt chiding my commentary, and steps away.  
  
“‘Happy apprentice hunting.’ You are tasteful with your words. Now if only you were this motivated on other tasks than your sardonic leisure.”  
  
“It’s not solely leisure, Nanase. ‘Make haste about it if it is a good thing.’” I slip the paper into an envelope and press the clan’s seal to fasten. “Natori is inclined to withdraw, for whatever argument he had had with Natsume. So I will take the opportunity that this crisis brings.” My calligraphy set is arranged neatly before I rise from the chabudai with the letter in hand.  
  
“Please don’t mock me, figurehead. Why are you warning him if this is an opportunity?”  
  
I turn to smile at Nanase. Her mouth is twisted into a small glower, no doubt peeved by my counters. “To taunt him. I don’t expect him to react. But if he does, he’ll just scare Natsume further, unintentionally prompting him towards me.” I hand the envelope to one of my paper-masked shiki, ordering it to be delivered to Natori’s residence. “The argument seemed serious and shady, like something he wants to hide. I don’t think he’s willing to risk its discovery for Natsume.”  
  
Nanase and I watch the shoji door close by the departing shiki, its shadow disappearing behind the screen. “...and maybe the boy would take kindly to some security.”  
  
  
  
Waiting outside the school gates is unfathomably tacky; I’m not some parent or smitten classmate. I linger down the main road from the school instead, minding the rows of regimented trees and pathways. I’d like to think I’m reasonably considerate when concerning Natsume (regardless what he or Natori tell me). For certain, the boy will especially protest my presence if we acquainted at the front gates. (He was hardly accommodating to me the last time I requested his assistance. It’s best to take precautions on both of our behalves.)  
  
Questioning eyes from his classmates is something I’d rather not entertain either. This is strictly our affair, something that those without Sight needn’t fret about or become involved in. There are reasons why they were exempted and should continue to be inhibited. This world is neither playful nor simple.  
  
With the absence of contracted ayakashi, I can presume that Natori has declined the challenge. Though, I wish I had the chance to see his face. I wonder if he would be more appalled by me requesting Natsume for membership to the clan, or the fact that he is stifled by confliction to attempt a dispute.  
  
Really, what sort of ‘argument’ was it? And its purpose? How awful was it that he has to avoid confrontation with Natsume? The boy left some thorough marks. But wouldn’t he feel more satisfied if Natori was marked with something prominent? It’s too easy to hide the shame under long sleeves. For whatever he did, it was unwelcome if Natsume had to retaliate.  
  
My lips lift into a smile, then realizing. _Retaliation._  
  
Some high school students pass by, stumped looks painting their faces as they regard me loitering a small distance from their school’s gates. Their eyes turn away when I tilt my head in their direction. More students filter through, although infrequently now with the passing time. I leave my attention up the slight incline, awaiting the boy.  
  
How shameful were your actions, Natori?  
  
“Ah.” My eyes draw to Natsume hesitating from a distance with hands clenched tightly to the strap of his shoulder bag. He hastily looks around the area before finally, reluctantly, making his way over. I offer a welcoming smile, but he dismisses it curtly.  
  
“I don’t appreciate you dropping by my school, especially when dressed like that,” he says in a low voice, eyes wary and scrutinizing my attire. “I had to make up an excuse for my friends so they wouldn’t have to see you and worry.”  
  
To tease him, I showily adjust the black haori, passing a hand down the front. “How noble. It’s not like I was going to involve them — my interest is only in persons who can see ayakashi.” Sensing a missing presence, I immediately bring it up. I can’t help the slightly amused tone I inform him with. “It seems like your guardian is missing.”  
  
Natsume avoids my eye-contact and takes a step back. “He’s around. So don’t try anything.” With how much he is looking around, I find that proclamation doubtful.  
  
“Mm-mm.” I observe Natsume for a moment. He keeps his gaze separate from mine, unmistakably bothered and anxious because of his fidgeting. “I hear ayakashi aren’t the only things troubling you lately.” A flinch. “You should consider joining the Matoba clan. We can also protect you from troublesome exorcists.”  
  
Natsume flashes a glare at me. “That wouldn’t solve anything. You’re one of the exorcists bothering me.”  
  
I chuckle in response. It’s expected that I’m going to seem bothersome to him. But really, I’m not the hindrance. “Ah, then I suppose that wouldn’t work, unless I’m the lesser evil of the other exorcist.”  
  
His gold eyes flit to mine, conflicted and careful. “Th... You’re all the same. There’s... no such thing as a lesser evil among exorcists.”  
  
Oh, looks like he caught that. “‘Among all exorcists,’ then, not particular ones?”  
  
The boy falters to speak, a firm face gradually stripped away to expose his insecurity. It would be unlikely to have Natsume admit it, whatever it is. Natori is a ‘friend’ — but, Natsume, he is still an exorcist, _through and through._  
  
“What was your argument about?”  
  
Natsume promptly feigns the occurrence, pushing the book bag to the side of his leg, impressioned to bolt at the slightest misstep. “...what argument?” However, his face betrays his false admittance. It has sunken completely into a reflexive panic. His fingernails delve harshly into the bag strap, just like how he must have done to Natori’s arms.  
  
It wasn’t an argument.  
  
It’s difficult to suppress a stubborn grin. Natsume, ever mindful, notices this, proof evident in his fearful expression. “I must have been mistaken then. Though, my offer always stands, Natsume.”  
  
Natsume searches my face for a few moments longer before ultimately sprinting away, uttering quietly under his breath, “I will never.”  
  
In the end, Natori never came. This is uncharacteristically like him, so surely his reaction stresses that whatever he did must be unforgivable. I’m still disappointed that he didn’t intervene; it would only confirm my suspicion and speed up the development.  
  
  
  
An aversion to sake. Staying the night. A heavy human scent. Clenched fingers. Trouble with exorcists. The beast even failed its purpose. They all volunteer this information to me, garnished grandiosely with carelessness, reinforced with those wretched, gold eyes.  
  
Admittedly, I’m delighted I can hold this over Natori’s head. Now I have leverage in the field between us; I have the trump he desires, the one he lost. (But really, it’s unfortunate that Natsume has to be included in such a despicable offense.) In spite of this, because Natori made such an appealing opportunity, I could compensate him for the exceptional execution. But not now. Natsume hasn’t accepted my offer just yet.  
  
Only one more request before he grasps desperately for it.  
  
“I didn’t think this would be easy to uncover. Looks like Natori is really absent-minded as of late.” I dismiss the clan’s tengu-masked ayakashi with an order. “Would you mind bringing me some wagashi?”  
  
I hear Nanase sigh, shifting from her stance near the chabudai. She eyes the gibberish-ayakashi scrawlings on the table. “This is fine and all, but you should be spending time on more demanding priorities instead of this distraction.”  
  
I laugh. This is anything but time-consuming — it’s a stupid riddle, way below my skill of inducing. I’m honestly surprised the cat-beast hasn’t yet mauled Natori. I wonder ( _excitedly_ ) what would happen once it realizes.  
  
“Would you like to hear about it?” The shiki reenters with my request, placing a platter decorated with brightly colored and varied shaped sweets on the table. I side-glance Nanase, her gray-shaded eyes trained on the collected wagashi. “Natori is a bad man.”


	6. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Sensei, aren’t you being hypocritical?

Sensei can already tell something is amiss. He looks me over, recently unnerved and distracted—  
  
but he brings up Natori instead. He claims he can no longer drink due to that exorcist, due to my blunder, but it’s his own fault that he can’t.  
  
I grit my teeth and struggle to not clench my hands.  
  
Drop it. Just drop it already.  
  
He insists. He prods. He claims the strangeness of my behavior and smell. He discovers I didn’t come home that night, how I indulged in alcohol. He doesn’t muster any induction, only chides my trust and passiveness.  
  
Looking at him, I consider his words, his careful eyes. There is no detectable rage. He still doesn’t know, despite him wanting to. And I think, in spite,  
  
 _I don’t ever want him to._  
  
My pace comes to a stop, my body freezes over. Sensei pauses at my feet to look out into the crowd. He remains quiet, pressing close to my ankle.  
  
I didn’t anticipate seeing Natori. He’s not from the area; he should be elsewhere. He is an actor, an exorcist, a busy person with a busy life and has other matters that keep him occupied and  _away_. So he shouldn’t be here — he isn’t here.  
  
 _I don’t want to see him._  
  
I turn in the opposite direction —  _but I see his head move this way_. (Maybe he noticed me, maybe he’s going to greet me—) I quicken my feet and hear Nyanko-sensei shout at me, then cuts himself off abruptly.  
  
 _I don’t want to see him._  
  
“Natsume.”  
  
I increase my steps, thinking only of a place elsewhere, hidden, away, far away— There’s that sickly-sweet taste in my mouth again. I feel like vomiting.  
  
“You still need to pick up the vegetables.”  
  
When arriving home, I realize my breathing is strained and dry, my heart pounding painfully. Touko comments on how quickly I came back, then moves to the kitchen, requesting I help prepare dinner with the produce I collected.  
  
I blanch in the foyer empty-handed. That’s what Sensei was shouting about. I glimpse at Sensei, apologetic, and clench the hem of my untucked shirt as I tell Touko that the kitty got into a fight with a stray cat. His gold eyes stay on me, boring down heavily. I mouth an apology for him, but I keep my head angled away.  
  
I didn’t expect to see him. I never wanted to, never wished to. Never again.  
  
Every time my mind slips back to him, I feel as though I no longer have a stomach, a heart, or organs. There’s nothing inside.  
  
I’m nauseous.  
  
I’m completely hollowed out.  
  
 _I don’t want to see him ever again._  
  
  
  
 _What if he knows._  
  
What would he do if he knows.  
  
What could happen if he knows.  
  
The envelope in my clenched hands is signed by Matoba Seiji. Just recently, and in-person due to the lack of postage, it was delivered. This time I’m not careless with the letter; I step inside the foyer, painfully dreading its contents. Now is not the time to be involved with youkai related requests or threats of disclosure to my family. Despite that, I slip a letter out of the envelope.  
  
Sensei objects with a hiss, demanding that I shred it and stay away from him. “Nothing good comes from being involved with exorcists. They’re not here to help you, but cause you trouble. Ignore that, and ignore him.”  
  
I feel a pang in my chest. Why does he have to say that? Why does he now have to remind me of and reinforce his distrust for exorcists, who are ‘selfish’ and ‘thoughtless’ and ‘nuisances’?  
  
...Sensei, aren’t you being hypocritical?  
  
Now more out of spite than necessity, I read the letter.

_‘Natori has responded that he won’t be involved in your affairs any longer._  
I have a proposal for you.  
Come by the manor or I can have you escorted.’

Nyanko-sensei sticks out his nose, sneering at the paper in my hands. “Well? What does that cursed exorcist want? Is he requesting to have his death-wish fulfilled?”  
  
I quickly fold and stuff the letter into my pocket before checking the clock on the wall — half past fifteen.  
  
  
  
“I didn’t think you would arrive on such short notice. I’m surprised you even remember the manor I have in the area.” The clan-head peers down to Nyanko-sensei, an unnerving smile already plastered on his lips. “Unless your beast helped you.” The two mind the other for a moment before Matoba tilts his head toward me, missing the cautionary look Sensei flashes. “Did I request you too soon? I wouldn’t like to inconvenience you.”  
  
I glance at Sensei who continues his narrowed glare at the exorcist. “Stop your sympathetic pretense. It’s unbecoming of you.” His paws readjust on the floorboards. Although vigilant, he’s considerably weakened from the manor’s enforced seals. He refuses a seat at the chabudai, but remains close to me. I’m a little more comfortable with his presence — but still wary, still guilty. Sensei has a right to feel affronted; Matoba is offering something, after all. I pass a hand down Sensei’s back, brushing down his bristling fur.  
  
Despite Matoba being troublesome to me in the past, he is not the exorcist that has wronged me — and he knows it. He knew something was distressing me, having already realized it was an exorcist. ‘The other exorcist,’ not plural, not more than one. He knew who it was from the beginning, but wanted me to confirm it. But I didn’t expect him to ask what ‘the argument’ was about.  
  
Matoba talked with Natori directly.  
  
That time, I saw his eye catch me wringing my school bag. He knew something was wrong. He was figuring it out.  
  
And now he has.  
  
The tea cups that were summoned, more out of courtesy than necessity, haven’t been touched, but I keep my sight on the one closest to me as if I’m deciding to take a sip. Although I have come here, I remain muted. What is the point of this?  
  
“I thought you already knew that,” Matoba says, breaking my concentration from the cup. His red eye looks past me to Sensei. “But your beast still doesn’t seem to know. It’s dishonorable that such a mighty ayakashi as him has forsaken his promise of guardianship.”  
  
A small gasp chokes me as I veer my attention back to Matoba, wide-eyed and shocked. “That’s—” I cut myself off and the exorcist continues without a pause, no doubt resuming whether I silenced or not.  
  
“I am offering protection in exchange for your apprenticeship.”  
  
Nyanko-sensei interjects immediately. “Natsume doesn’t need something like that from you! What would be beneficial to him is if you stop hassling him!” Sensei stares dubiously at me,  _warning_ , and  _careful_ , and  _scared_. I didn’t speak, but he looks at me as if I might, as if the offer tempts me.  
  
I fist the trousers atop of my thighs,

my focus set on the bottom of the nearest tea cup to avoid both of their gazes.

_It does._

“Calm down, beast. You surely don’t even understand the situation.”  
  
“I know it has something to do with you cursed exorcists — and how incredibly weak you humans are!”  
  
Matoba looks me over when I flinch. Acting as if I was cold, I hug my arms over my chest. Isn’t Sensei too riled up? ...But he has reason to be. It’s not merely because of Matoba. He’s been stressed, hampered to my presence, withholding from his usual leisures.  
  
It’s understandable. He doesn’t mean it.  
  
“...that’s unfortunate to hear that you think we’re like that. But you’re right to a certain extent. Although, you should have used ‘contemptible’ instead of ‘weak.’”  
  
Sensei becomes incredibly quiet. Curious, I see the predatory look in his eyes, claws extracted, fur standing — all directed at Matoba. I hope to sneak a glimpse at the man’s reaction, but I find his gaze on me, locking me into place. My face must have fallen; I know it must have. I feel a panicked heat swell inside me — guilty and caught and  _ashamed_. Matoba resumes, unrelenting—  
  
—causing my heart to plunge into a burning cold.  
  
“Natori didn’t take care of Natsume that night,” I squeeze my arms, pulling on the sleeves of my shirt, “right, Madara?”  
  
Sensei must be livid at Matoba’s discourtesy, and yet, he remains silent, closely watching the exorcist.  
  
“You wonder why he doesn’t like sake. You wonder why he reeked excessively of another human. You wonder why that exorcist-friend hasn’t been around. What else has changed? Oh!” I catch Matoba gesturing to his sleeve. “Natori has these nasty cuts from fingernails. I’m sure Natsume has some marks himself.”  
  
I choke. My heart, my mind, hurts,  _hurts_ , like they are straining to rupture so I wouldn’t have to endure this. But they only hurt, only throb, and nothing’s resolved.  
  
Sensei doesn’t need to know.  
  
“He- he already discussed some of that with me.”  
  
Matoba has folded his arms into his sleeves, attention trained and expecting on Sensei. “Oh? Then when is he going to realize—”  
  
“I have,” interrupts Sensei’s pensive voice. My fingernails bite into my arms, hoping that it suppresses the small tremor that has seized my body, stops my heart from leaping out of my chest. “But now it’s confirmed for certain. Unfortunately, I am late in acknowledging this.”  
  
“It should have been prevented, not acknowledged,” Matoba quietly mutters. I try to sink into myself,  _disappear_  into my body’s heated manifestation of guilty agreement.  
  
I expect Sensei to lash out at Matoba. There’s no acknowledgment that he heard Matoba’s quip. Instead, I feel an ominous energy emanate from Sensei.  
  
“I’m going to tear him apart,” he seethes, dark and low and feral. I meekly call to Sensei with a small objection, but he lets out a low rumble from his throat.  
  
Matoba wears a pleased expression as he watches Sensei. It makes me uneasy, so I press back to Sensei and his glowering.  
  
“I knew he was no-good,” claiming this, Nyanko-sensei hardens his glare on Matoba. “You’re not any better by involving yourself in this.”  
  
Overlooking Sensei’s darkened look and rough tone, Matoba keeps his audacious smile and unchanged expression. “Natsume is constantly targeted by ayakashi, and just recently exorcists. Who would he consult when you’ve proven yourself to be unreliable?”  
  
I’m startled to find Matoba’s attention back on me; amusement tugs the corners of his lips. He... He has been taking advantage of the occurrence ever since he found out. He knew he could manipulate this to acquire something that he desires. That’s why he made a proposal, ridiculed Sensei’s failure, and reinforced that  _I am vulnerable once more._  
  
“He will  _not_  be needing such a thing,” Nyanko-sensei insists with a snarl. “I’ve had enough of officious exorcists. Particularly damned ones.”  
  
But Matoba gives me an expectant look — knowing,  _knowing_. Nothing is confirmed if it is not admitted or denied. What had happened has brought me here, to this man, to this decision that I’m disappointed in and yet stupidly hoping I remain safe in.  
  
“I accept your proposal.”


	7. Stalemate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My paranoia and inhibitions melt away, making me able to unwind, recline, and listen freely. I have almost fallen asleep on these occasions.
> 
> “That’s a good thing,” Matoba reassures me. “That means it is working.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support, comments, and hits on this story. There will be a sequel coming soon. Please enjoy the last installment!

The conditions of the proposal are simple. Most, if not all, are undesired lessons involving exorcism rites and jutsu. For agreeing to the request, he lets a shiki guard me from a distance. Mostly to keep other harmful things away, he says, but it's another way to belittle Sensei. It'd be sure to help me if I wasn't capable. But I'd be able to protect myself soon enough, he assures.

...I'm inclined to agree.

Along with the weekly teachings, I have tea with Matoba. Strangely, it's a time I enjoy. Maybe it's because we're like normal humans, not people who can see youkai. He doesn't even discuss otherworldly things, but casual conversation. Although whenever Matoba tries to extract anything too personal from me, I remain stubborn and dismiss the topic. Nyanko-sensei is sure to even reinforce it himself, never shy to bare his teeth at the exorcist, especially after the first time when Matoba offered liquor to Sensei.

Sensei is still reluctant, still bothered that I agreed to this, but he stays as close as he can, as often as he can when we come, despite the manor's cleansing seals.

I always leave intact, but in the back of my mind I still feel uneasy. After bringing it up to Sensei, he figures that it must be the teachings and seals; I was never considerably exposed to them until now.

And just as Matoba implied, I find myself more self-conscious, reviewing in my head the best escape routes or the least harmless jutsu if provoked. _They are ways to protect myself._ Sometimes Sensei catches my mouth moving, soundlessly framing the spell's words, and I become mortified of myself. I have come to this technique. I have blatantly shown my distrust in Sensei. I have placed naive hope in a suspicious exorcist.

It's contradictory and cowardly, but Sensei doesn't comment on it and continues to walk with my pace.

Overtime, the lessons come easier to me, almost effortlessly without thought. Maybe they are that simple, or that I've become skilled. Matoba also notices this and praises my progress. I'm humbled and proud for a moment, but welcome the self-disgust when he claims it must be innate. I'm not here to become an exorcist or a skilled medium. This is only an exchange.

It has been a month since his request. Matoba likes to alternate the tea every week, treating this affair like it's a hobby instead of an arrangement. One thing I'm quietly grateful for is that he keeps in mind to gather tea with calming qualities. Chamomile. Ashwaganda. Magnolia bark. Rhodiola rosea. I never say that I noticed, even to Nyanko-sensei. Instead I thank him a little more graciously than usual.

Today is a tea imported from China, valerian root. Gradually the taste and its properties puts me into a relaxed temper. My paranoia and inhibitions melt away, making me able to unwind, recline, and listen freely. I have almost fallen asleep on these occasions.

"That's a good thing," Matoba reassures me. "That means it is working."

 

 

The weather this past August has been uncommonly chilly. Mornings have been about 7 celsius, cold enough that I have to wear a durable jacket. Sometimes there has been frost on the grass and stone gate, but it always turns to dew when the sun carries on through the late morning and afternoon.

We take the side-path to the manor today. I plan to buy Nyanko-sensei (second) breakfast, hoping that he'll be less flippant when we arrive. He waddles by my side, face scrunched and mouth pressed. Stepping out of the convenience store, I hand off a steamed bun to him and it's devoured in silence. Although uncomfortable, I understand. He's still very upset.

I am too.

Making our way to the forest path, Nyanko-sensei begins banter about Matoba (the usual topic). A smile reaches my lips. This is fine — at least he's not making the situation tense at the manor.

The bushes to the side of us rustle suddenly before it trails down a line of other plant-life, startling Sensei and me. I have forgotten about that, Matoba's shiki. At the time, he told me I mustn't make eye-contact with it, but I needed to at least know its shape or aura. Glimpsing up, I surveyed the pitch-black body and the bottom of a haunting bone-mask (missing details any further). It was similar to his man-made shiki, but uncomfortably more sinister.

It's here ' _just in case_ '.

Nyanko-sensei narrows his eyes and adjusts his paws against the dirt path. "I should have given that damned brat a physical warning," he growls, hair standing. He looks back behind us—

—that's when I hear shuffling feet pause.

I'm not sure if my heart stops or heart rate picks up. Nausea and dread and fear stir and swell inside my stomach. Too often I have suffered through this, but now, all at once, it wretches my mind and body, exploding and icing my response. Panic urges me to run, but I am left unresponsive by unfeeling senses.

"Natsume." His voice is very soft, and if I wasn't searching for it, I wouldn't have been able to hear it through the quiet buzz of insects.

He dares taking a step forward with my back facing him, with no respectable permission to approach me. I hear Sensei emit a growl deep from his throat once shifting into his beastly-form. Then — _now_ — I am able to find strength in my voice.

"Don't come any closer." Finally, in a breathless, labored exhale, I am able to express the words (the inflexible meaning) I've wanted to say so many weeks ago. "Please stay away from me, Natori."

I catch a flicker of a skull mask shifting through the bushes _closer_. Just then, I can feel my heart hammer, the shock of sense prickling back into my body and an apprehensive sweat claim my skin. I don't want this to get any worse.

"...you really took his offer." He sounds disappointed, but I don't feel guilty (I shouldn't), and keep my head forward. Why would it matter to him that I took the offer? Why would I consider how he felt about it when he was the one that led me to this decision?

"Yes. Stupidly, he did," Sensei scoffs. His thick tail brushes against my foot before pulling away and swiping back again — a sign of controlled aggravation. "A wise choice on everyone's part."

"Sensei," I seethe, clenching the strap of my bag. There's no indication that he heard me. His tail continues to sweep the forest ground as his claws bury into it.

For some time, I could only hear Madara's vicious breathing (and rumbling growls every few expels). Natori hasn't shifted closer, but he hasn't left either. My palms sweat onto the strap of my bag, and I twist it with the prolonged discomfort. The strength in my voice gradually falls away with each passing second, quicker than the breaths I release. My throat begins to feel tight and parched. I'm silenced from saying anything more, but I ground myself by pressing fingernails into my other hand.

_I cannot clam up. I cannot tremble. I cannot remain passive._

"...I'm sorry, Natsume."

My shoulders flinch upwards, but I buckle down the intense need to tremble, to run, to hide. I hold my breath and look to the trees and forestry in front of me, studying the difference of their barks and color of their leaves, how some have roots that peek out as others rest under the dirt or hide within the grass. I'm afraid of the breath my lungs strain for, how they might swallow and choke down all the air they can. The next terrible fit of anxiety will surely exhaust me, and that will unfortunately leave me vulnerable and unprepared.

"That was never my only intention."

I can't keep this up; it hurts even more, it's harder to maintain, when I don't breathe. With a fulfilling inhale, I dare to turn my body (just half-way) to find a figure shaded by the trees three meters away. I veer my eyes past his arm and he shifts slightly the other away. Hesitantly, I reach his downcast profile, straining my eyes in the last of my energy to urge him to finish, to leave, to disappear.

"...I didn't mean for this to happen." Natori looks at me, pausing. I steady my gaze despite the pounding in my chest and the fear clawing at me to look away. Instead I'm reassured by the warmth near me, and I lean just slightly to it. The leaves from the tree above us flutter down and Sensei exhales loudly. "But now… I want you to be even more wary of people."

Madara emits a wet snarl. "If you dare attempt a lecture or some sort to Natsume, I'll bite off that fated leg of yours. Toss away any sort of pretentious grief or compassion you hold for the boy. _Leave_ , you flea."

"I wanted to help you. I really… wanted you as a friend."

My next breath comes in sharply, jabbing my lungs and ribs into my heart. In the distance, I hear Madara's low rumble, but I don't turn around; I keep my head forward, hanging. "Please leave, Natori." Never have I felt so out of breath, so dizzy, so sick, so scared, so tired. I fist the messenger bag to the front of me.

Maybe Sensei's presence holds him back (or maybe he is _listening_ to me) because Natori stops speaking. He doesn't retreat, not yet, but only with a departing word both miserable and regretful.

"He will make sure you fulfill that promise, Natsume."

We later arrive at the manor, unnerved and irritable. Nothing could lighten Sensei's mood nor could I overcome the trembling I thought I had rid of.

His parting words did not settle well with me, nor do I think he intended them to.

 

 

"You might have to leave for some spells that we will be doing."

"You underestimate me, cursed exorcist." Matoba smiles down at Sensei and he leers back. "Your stupid charms won't affect someone as mighty as me. Let's see how the Matoba do their silly jutsu."

Sensei won't leave me alone with Matoba. Knowing that, the exorcist continues to question Sensei's competency, distressing us both even further. Whenever this happens I usually step back, letting Sensei snap and bicker until he settles himself. Matoba always notices my retreat and uses that to urge Sensei's dismissal. This just kindles his flame, causing him to lash out ( _again_ ), and I withdraw further.

I don't want to be here any more than you do, Sensei.

I brace myself and collect the paper, ink, and brushes on the table into my arms, "I'll get started," leaving the hostile congestion of the room.

Although I have fled the room, I still feel Sensei's anger, frustration, and desperation. I know he feels awful and still holds self-disappointment of our broken promise. But now he constantly stays by my side, scraping his leisure of drinking and outing, claiming that he would have to now be more attentive about the Book of Friends since 'the eye-patch exorcist' is involved. This may be his way of redeeming, of coping, but I feel like I'm being crushed with the constant surveillance.

That's when Matoba offers a different tea: passionflower.

"It has sedative qualities," he tells me. "It will help with your stress. I see that you're having trouble concentrating lately."

 

 

Despite his claim, the lessons I have with Matoba do affect Sensei. They were small effects, but they compounded over time. At first he would just be a bit tired (and cranky if Matoba tried to bring up his fatigue). He would have to lie down, claiming he was really tired from the previous day (but all he does is stay around me). Regardless, he always, _always_ keeps his eyes open, if just a little.

After lessons is when we have tea. I carry Nyanko-sensei in my arms as we make our way there. His body is heavier than normal like he is advancing unconsciousness. Softly I shift him in my arms; he shakes his head and paws at his ear. He was about to doze off.

"Would there be something for Sensei at all…?" I'm sure he wouldn't mind a rousing snack or drink.

Matoba casts a look down to me, then to the form in my arms. Sensei fidgets slightly, aiming his head away from the exorcist. (I'm also tempted to pull away from his scrutiny.) It's quiet for a few long seconds before he responds. "...there might be."

A mixture of ginger and ginseng is brewed for Nyanko-sensei. Curled on a pillow, a shiki delivers it to him. He blinks at it groggily, adjusting the paws underneath him before venturing a taste. Letting out an undoubtedly exhausted sigh, Sensei shuts his eyes, but quickly, _reluctantly_ , opens them. No one could mistake it.

I take a sip of the tea Matoba recently introduced. Minding the cup in my hands, I thumb the texture on the outside and note the warmth the liquid emits.

"It will be autumn soon. You haven't been dressing in clothes that suit the weather."

I blink when feeling the pressure on the sides of my head melt and clear away. "I have to get it out of storage." The beginnings of a muddy calm swirls in.

Matoba regards me for a moment before he hums and tips a cup to his lips. When he swallows, I imitate the motion. But my throat is dry, my mouth empty. Distantly, I feel the tea cup slip from my grip. I don't realize how intently I'm watching until Matoba points out my dazed focus. "Ah, you're looking at me so attentively. Is there something you need to disclose with me?"

Hearing Matoba speak, I try to shake myself of my jumbled brain. He directs a raised eyebrow and a small smile at me. I quickly hide my embarrassed face by sipping from my cup.

_This feels familiar._

Warily, I check Matoba's face for any physical sign of thoughts or feelings. He still wears that grin from before. I'm not sure if his expressions have become friendlier or more deceiving. They're becoming harder to differentiate and label over the past couple months despite my constant exposure to him. I want to say I can sometimes tell, at least. But not today.

Resigned and dry, my lips curve into an attempt of a smile. There's a small sensation of liquid passing along my thumb; I place the cup onto the table. His figure, blurry and dark, shifts, and asks me a question. He reaches over the table, bringing a short-lived breeze of his scent with him. A light touch of fingers presses atop my left hand.

I laugh. Huh. It must have been funny. He looks a little amused himself.

_I'm just a bit tired after all._

Sensei stirs to my right. I reach down to stroke his head, inducing a vibrating purr from his throat.

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch that." My voice shakes with a laugh ( _nervous, unsure_ ). His hand is now completely on mine, warm and feeling and human — things I never dared associate with this dangerous man. The thought of it, the sight of it, chokes me.

But the hand leaves just as quickly as it came, leaving a cool void.

My eyes slowly blink, and my head moves in a languid motion to Matoba. A teacup is pressed to his lips; he swallows — and my eyes can't be torn away. This time I am ensnared by the sight than past simple stupor. I stop petting Sensei who has since dipped into a fatigued slumber.

Matoba places down the cup and gives me a smile — and again, I'm confused as to what to label it. I'm used to the unsaid schemes and motives, but there haven't been any since I have been under his care. It should be calculating, prideful, mocking — but I can't point out those traits anymore, either due to my neglect or his changing character.

A soft quiet blankets over, enclosing our temperaments and casual motions; stuffy, warm, secure. Maybe it's my head; it feels thick. Matoba motions to his mouth, his hand curled into an imaginary grip. 'Drink'. I follow the suggestion and his face morphs into something contemplative (eyes narrow, a miniscule pull on his lips, hand under his chin). My cheeks are on fire; it feels weird having sole, unbroken attention on me.

It's just us two.

"You don't have to give it much thought. It happens naturally, most times without a conscious thought. For people like us, it can be harnessed for stronger connections and power."

I stare at him all the while, mesmerized by the movement of his lips and his stable frame. Why do I feel like I'm wavering? I look down to the table, down onto myself, and find myself balanced and unmoving. The near-empty teacup captures my interest. Suddenly parched, I finish the remainder of the tea and sense bits of dried flower scrape along my tongue.

"Allow me to instruct you on its collection and use. I'm sure you will grow to be an even more powerful medium."

I agree,

I allow,

and he thanks me.


End file.
